


Scars

by wintercealde



Category: Robin Hood (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-11
Updated: 2008-11-11
Packaged: 2017-10-26 00:14:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintercealde/pseuds/wintercealde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little reflective piece from Marian's perspective.  Future/AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by the lovely and talented [](http://hulamoth.livejournal.com/profile)[**hulamoth**](http://hulamoth.livejournal.com/) , whose advice has been invaluable.

When she wakes again he's sleeping on his back, his arm flung across his face. The fire is low and the sun's not yet up, but there's enough ambient light to study him while he sleeps.

His skin is lined where it has been stretched and pulled from steel and leather. There are not as many scars as she would have thought--though really, she has only Robin to compare--and though faded white lines cut here and there across his arms and chest, none compare with the ugly, discolored patch that stretches down his inner forearm. The skin is shiny-slick and mottled around the edges and she lightly follows the uneven shape with a finger, wondering that he could stay with the Sheriff for so long.

Her skin, too, is flawed. There's the old burn on the back of her hand, and other places, barely visible any more, where she ran too fast through the forest or sat on her embroidery scissors or handled a kitten from the barn cat's litter with too little care.

Those are all inconsequential, she knows, her thoughts finally coming to rest on the long, jagged scar on her belly. It is an ugly thing, but she does not mind that. It is a part of her; it bears testament to the fact that she is a warrior. Occasionally she wonders whether it will become hateful to them both, a constant reminder of what they can never have.

But it is too soon for such thoughts, and her fingers lightly trace the curving ridges just as his had done earlier.

He had looked almost afraid to touch it, and she had barely been able to feel his fingers on the desensitized flesh. He hadn't lingered like she'd feared, and she was glad he hadn't tried to whisper apologies when he drew her close again. He only pulled her mouth to his and kissed her fervently. Maybe it had been an apology. Maybe it had been acceptance--of her, her body, their past.

She hopes that he has accepted these things, or will, as she has. It is fitting that they are scarred. It is fitting that their bodies are marked, for they are people marked, by steel as much as by their struggles to find themselves and their place in society. Though life is quiet now, the worst conflicts and worries behind them, she does not want to forget how they got to this place. It is too precious, too hard won, to take for granted.

In his sleep he turns and reaches for her, and her heart thrills again. She knows the excitement will fade, but she's learning, too, the warm glow of familiar love. She presses her face into his neck and he curls around her.  



End file.
